Tamale traditions seen through a masa-infused dream state

I was literally slipping into darkness, that semi-lucid state where the head grows heavy, the sight grows dim and the bloat in your stomach puts an uncomfortable pressure on your chest that just keeps a person from fully passing out.

This was not a good place to be, not when you’re staring at a blank computer screen on Christmas Eve, trying to come up with a column idea, alternating between a kind of wobbly reality of a masa-induced dream state and the intermittent need to nestle my head in my hands and moan from the savory pain.

Yes, it is possible to eat too many tamales at one sitting, especially when a self-conscious wife has made her first-ever solo batch and needs that constant reassurance of their delectability. The only way to provide that comfort is to eat one after another, first a spicy pork number with green and black olives, then a creamy cheese ditty with tender green chilies, both wrapped in the pillowy goodness of masa with enough Manteca to stop 10,000 hearts.

Of course I am that husband, the one who will go the extra mile for his wife and eat just one more tamal. Perfect. And maybe another. Even better. She’s worth it.

I don’t need to tell anyone out there how important the tamale is to the Latino family dynamic; it is what grandmothers, daughters and granddaughters do during the holidays, passing down traditions and sharing experiences that are as much about the act than they are about the end result.

I point out the women in a family not to be sexist or chauvinistic, rather, to point out that there is a serious amount of matronly bonding that happens during this process, one that never seems to be as meaningful or fully appreciated with the boys and men as with the ladies.

My wife’s grandmother, Eulalia Corral, passed away this year, a woman who made some of the best tamales I had ever tasted. And while her age and infirmities prevented her from making her tamales for the better part of the last decade, my wife in our early years together was there to help mix masa, stir sauce and clean the silk off the husks.

On Christmas Eve I watched her do this by herself for the first time, teaching our daughter the art of spreading just enough masa over the moistened corn husk, showing her how much saucy pork is too much and how much is just enough, advising how to fold so nothing squeezes out of the business end before steaming.

It was fun watching them, listening to my wife tease about sneaking five or six olives in one tamal as a joke when her grandmother wasn’t looking, secretly adding more salt to the meat and more red chili sauce to the masa to give it a bit more color and spice.

At 9 years old, I’m sure it was lost a little bit on Riley, but she had fun watching her mom turn the kitchen into a disaster zone, calling her out on adding “random water to the masa” from whatever cup or glass was in arm’s reach.

They giggled and squealed, and my wife said she felt like crying a few times while doing this, remembering “Mom,” what she affectionately called her grandmother, and knowing that what she was doing was hopefully keeping something alive for Riley’s own children someday.

This isn’t anything that hasn’t been felt by thousands of families all over the Imperial Valley this week, telling similar stories, living similar experiences and sharing moments, very intimate and special moments, with daughters, primas, tias, and family members nuclear and extended.

What’s awesome about this time of year is the tamale party, whether planned or impromptu, purchased or prepared at home, isn’t necessarily a Latino thing anymore, but something that is linked to Imperial Valley life during the holidays as much as the cooking of the communal turkey is a given at Thanksgiving.

Next stop is New Year’s and a different kind of discomfort, as my elastic stomach prepares to hold as much posole as humanly possible; ‘tis the season for a handful of Tums and a few cups of yerba buena.

For the moment, though, waxing rhapsodic on tamales and tradition has cleansed my palate and cleared the way for maybe just one more cheese tamal, and after that, maybe another. It’s difficult work, but a man’s got to help uphold customs, too, whether it pains him or not.

This column originally appeared in the Imperial Valley Press, Dec. 26, 2014.